


The Star's Child

by kuumai



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 13:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18447125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuumai/pseuds/kuumai
Summary: Some days pass with ease and simplicity. Some are more difficult to withstand.





	The Star's Child

Maia woke early, before his edocharei could wake him, as they did each day, to remind him of the plethora of responsibilities to which he must attend. Beyond time delineated for meditation, he garnered but a few minutes to simply sit and contemplate. However, even as he lay silently, steadying his breath, loathe to alert Telimezh of his wakeful state, he could not seem to land his anxious mind on any one coherent thought. He knew only that he must not make a sound. He knew not even the reason. 

Telimezh must surely be able to hear Maia’s heartbeat, Maia thought. Surely. For to Maia, his blood was roaring, his heart was racing in futile attempts to match the speed of his thoughts, circling, looping around his brain, too quickly for Maia to grasp the reason for his state of unease. 

Perhaps he’d had a bad dream. 

At some point, some hours or seconds later, Maia’s heart had slowed to a manageable velocity, and Avris drew back the bed-hangings to bid him good morning. Maia could have wept for all the kindness Avris’s voice held. 

His edocharis crossed the room. The gentleness with which he pulled open the curtains reminded Maia of Isvaroë. The way in which the dull light of early morning fell sluggishly and stained the carpet gray reminded Maia of Edonomee. 

At times Edonomee felt like a bad dream. Fortunately, this was true quite often, especially recently. At other times, however, memories crept around the edges of his vision, shadowy predators hiding in his peripheral, constantly prepared to strike. 

  
  
  
  


Csevet woke early, but this was not an unusual occurrence. He had a clock enchanted to chime irritatingly at the time he was to wake, but it had yet to be of any use. Csevet felt ever blessed for his natural gift to wake at whatever time he desired. 

No, it was not odd that he woke at this time, but rather that he felt incredibly and unexplainably fatigued. He rose from his bed with effort, for he could not forego quotidian routine for a bit of weariness. 

Not that he should describe his occupation as quotidian. His duties felt monotonous at times, but he delighted in serving the emperor. Though he loathed to admit it, Csevet felt quite affectionately toward his emperor, and likely would even were he not the emperor. 

And so Csevet found himself standing in the middle of his bedchamber, staring at the wall with unfocused eyes. Had he in sooth begun to doze whilst preparing for the day? A scowl overcame his face, and he inwardly scolded himself. What reason had he to be tired so? Csevet shook his head and located his mirror to begin fixing his braid. The ears of his reflection were tinted pink, though no one was around to witness his mistake. 

Perhaps he’d had a bad dream.

He recalled no dreams, but it was not inconceivable for memories of Eshoravee to disrupt his sleep. Even so, such an occurrence had not happened for perhaps months, to the best of Csevet’s knowledge. 

Merciful goddesses, here he was again, staring blankly at his reflection and not moving!

The day would begin regardless of the fact that every movement made him more aware of the exhaustion settling into his bones, of the weight on his chest that refused to leave. The day would begin regardless, so as Csevet swept through his doorway, he abandoned the weariness. If he were able to choose at what time to wake, surely he was able to choose at what time to feel tired, and the present was certainly not that time.

  
  
  
  


Listening to Csevet list his duties over breakfast did not perform wonders for Maia’s mood. However, he was lucky enough to not meet with the Corazhas that day. Though he had gained considerable confidence in his abilities to speak before others, he had not the drive nor energy to deal with constant bickering. 

Csevet drew his pocket watch. “Prince Idra and his sisters were to be here a quarter hour ago.”

It was only at this proclamation that Maia remembered that he was to eat with Idra and the girls. As though they had been summoned, there was a sudden and noisy commotion outside the doors, startling Isheian into nearly dropping a teapot.

By the time Csevet reached the doors and opened them, his cousins had composed themselves into silence and straight spines, but Idra wore a poorly concealed glare, and Mireän looked ready to burst, whether into tears or otherwise. 

And burst she certainly did, stumbling forward in a haste to exclaim, “I’m sorry, Cousin Maia!”

For an unknown reason, Maia nearly smiled, and he was ready to forgive her before ever hearing the reason for the apology. “For what?” he asked in amusement.

“It’s my fault!” said Mireän, which did not clarify anything for Maia.

Idra took this opportunity to step forward as well. “My sister means to say that she was so… particular about her hair this morning that it caused us to be late.”

“I thought that to appear before the emperor with bed hair would be improper.”

“But to be late would not?” Idra said incredulously. At the sight of her siblings arguing, and Maia had no doubt it was not their first time doing so this morning, Ino began to pout with a fervor that greatly impressed Maia. 

Maia did smile, finally, and raised his hands in what he hoped was a gentle and placating manner. “Please. All is forgiven. Come and eat.”

They did so, and Csevet finally closed the doors. However, he subsequently asked to excuse himself to the Rose Room, likely to attend to the emperor’s endless pile of letters. Maia granted the request, and off Csevet went. 

Maia selected to remain quiet unless his input was explicitly requested, and he was happy to simply enjoy the presence of the three siblings. Sharing tea and conversation with them was uplifting, and as he returned to Rose Room with his first nohecharei some time later, he felt far lighter than he had upon waking.

He had grown so accustomed to entering upon Csevet at the desk that he found nothing amiss at first. However, it took not a few seconds for Maia to notice that Csevet had his head resting heavily on his hands and seemed not to notice Maia’s presence. His failure to greet the emperor earned a noise of disapproval from Beshelar, but neither of the nohecharei spoke.

Maia approached the desk with bemused curiosity. “Csevet?”

His amusement morphed to concern when Csevet continued to neglect to acknowledge him. Csevet’s breathing stuttered at an uneasy tempo.

“Are you well?”

“He sleeps, we think,” said Cala.

Maia nodded, and it was more instinct than aught else that led Maia reach toward Csevet’s wrist. Almost instantaneously, Csevet slapped Maia’s hand away, and both Cala and Beshelar startled forward.

It took some time for Maia to process Csevet’s sudden movements and to slow his surprised heartbeat, and thus he was quite belated in raising a hand to stop his nohecharei from moving further. They had already stilled, however, likely because Csevet was cowering against the far wall, breathing heavily. 

Csevet recovered his composure before Maia could, drawing himself away from the wall and promptly throwing himself to the ground in front of Maia.

Still floundering to grasp the situation, Maia had not a few questions swirling within his mind, but only managed to ask the one to which he already believed he knew the answer. “Were you asleep?”

“We were, Serenity,” Csevet said, sounding mortified at having presumed the privilege to rest his eyes. “We beg your pardon for shirking our duties. And for striking your hand. We are deeply sorry for our unseemly and unchecked behavior.”   
  
Csevet’s forehead remained pressed to the floor, as though the closer his face were to the ground the more apologetic he would appear. Meanwhile, Maia’s confusion had begun to organize itself into a few expressible phrases. “No, we frightened you.” Then, belatedly, “Please stand.”

At Maia’s word, Csevet immediately drew himself up, but seemed to be unable to meet Maia’s gaze directly. His cheeks were colored with shame and ears pointed low, and Maia sorely regretted attempting to touch his arm when it had been clear he was having a bad dream or something of the sort. 

Not arguing the point that Maia had frightened him, Csevet said, “We are most sorry.”

Maia took a moment to select his next words.“Would you have done so had you not been essentially asleep?”

Csevet looked incredulous. “No, Serenity, we—“

“Then that is that,” Maia said firmly.  _ As we have spoken, so will it be _ , he thought with amusement. Then, quieter: “I forgive you, Csevet.”

Csevet looked like he might either argue or cry, but instead bent at the waist. “We thank you.”

The two of them soon sat in silence on either side of the enormous desk housed in the Rose Room, consulting what seemed to Maia to be thousands of letters. Each moment that passed had Maia longing to return to the peace that had been breakfast that morning. 

Maia glanced up from a paper expressing how distasteful the Istandaärtha was appearing whilst under construction—a sentiment about which Maia cared very little—at his secretary. Csevet had dark circles under his eyes, and it was no wonder to Maia that he had fallen asleep. Rest was well deserved for his secretary. The nap must have helped him, at any rate, as Csevet was studying the letter before him with his usual dutifulness, if not more. 

Csevet’s immaculate, manicured fingers placed the letter to his left, indicating it was nothing for Maia to concern himself with, and selected another envelope from the pile. Maia carefully avoided looking down at his own hands, which disgusted him so. 

_ Focus, insolent child. Canst not ignore thy ugly hands for one moment? Csevet works diligently in spite of just having a night terror.  _

Csevet broke the silence and pulled Maia from his thoughts. “Serenity.”

“Csevet?”

“You would want to read this one for yourself, we think.”

“Who is it from? That is, who, um, from whom is…. Oh, if only I was—were—if only  _ we  _ were—“  _ not a moon-witted hobgoblin.  _ Maia forgot himself enough to land his head in his hands and let out an exasperated groan, which only furthered his embarrassment. Feeling his face heat up, Maia was grateful for his gray skin which hid blush.

_ Ugly hobgoblin.  _

_ Didst thou not rid thyself of Setheris long ago? Why does he plague thee still? _ But the judgmental voice in his head was both Setheris and his father and Shulivar and a million others, and above all himself and his own self-hatred. 

Unaware of the war being waged in Maia’s mind, and with undue affection, Csevet said, “It is alright, Serenity, to not use proper grammar in our presence.”

To Maia’s ears, this was a thinly veiled insult. He raised his head to glower, startling Csevet.

“We apologize, Serenity, we did not—that is, we should not have phrased that in such a way. We meant no offense.”

Maia let his head fall back to his hands. “No, Csevet, it is fine. We are just…”  _ moronic. A moon-witted hobgoblin. Quite uncreative in inventing more epithets for ourself. Haunted by the past and overwhelmed by the present. _

With a sigh, Maia finally managed to force himself into a decent sitting position.

“We are just tired _. _ ”

Csevet smiled at the pile of letters between them. “Yes,” he muttered, and Maia was not sure if he meant to speak aloud. “We understand.”

  
  
  
  


Edrehasivar VII Drazhar managed to perform the necessary imperial duties to complete the day, finding solace only in the moments of silence during luncheon in which Csevet could not find aught to tell him. Maia tired as the day went on, his statement to Csevet seeming more and more like the whole truth. His emotional highs and lows had steadied to a middle ground of apathy, which was for the best when it came to being the emperor, he supposed. It could not last, however; this he knew. 

As his edocharei helped him into a dressing gown and removed the emperor’s jewelry, Maia felt a suffocating weight settle over him. He consulted his hands as he was led into his bedchamber. Free of heavy rings, they somehow felt heavier; it was far more difficult to ignore his ugly knuckles.

_ Damned whelp. Damned whelp. Damned whelp.  _ This mantra marked each step of his march toward his bed. Without the costume of an emperor, Maia was vulnerable, even as Cala was the sole being left in the room.

Cala was smiling at him, he realized. “Sleep well, Serenity,” he said gently, pulling back the bed-hangings.

Maia intended to shed his dressing gown and crawl into bed. Instead, his eyes welled with tears. Wonderful.

“Serenity,” Cala said, sounding panicked, “What is the matter?”

“It is nothing,” said Maia.

“I think it is something, if you are crying!”

“We know not why our behavior is so infantile; at most times we are capable of suppressing our tears.” Maia knew the formal first in response to Cala’s informality would read as a rebuke and anticipated for Cala to be offended.

Cala raised a hand, and Maia dodged haphazardly to the left. “Don’t…!”—a protest which he could not complete, for in sooth he knew not what he had expected Cala to do.  _ Cala is not thy cousin. Cala is thy friend, however undeserved. Thou hast never known him to hit thee. _

In any event, Cala drew back and prefaced his movements. “May we feel your forehead, Serenity?”

The tenderness of Cala’s words seemed to cause a rock to form in Maia’s throat. Rather than attempt to speak around said rock, Maia selected to nod in response. When Cala once more stretched out his hand, Maia did not flinch away.

Maia’s eyes fluttered at the bliss which was Cala’s cool hand against his head. This certainly did not assist in the way of relieving Cala’s concern. “You feel feverish, Serenity.”

“Yes, of course, a febrile illness is to blame for our emotions,” Maia said, suddenly overcome by a wave of anger. “When we wake, the fever will have broken, and we will return to playing the role of the detached emperor with no need for compassion or friendship or a mother. If we spent our childhood lacking such frivolous and unseemly desires, then why should we yearn for them as an adult? Quite unbecoming of us, we know.” Maia finally managed to bite his tongue and internally cursed this illness. Could he not control his temper at all? He was acting like a child. Or someone of greater age, rendered inhibitionless by metheglin. He knew someone quite like that.

Cala, for his part, looked both stricken and hurt by Maia’s outburst, though in what way Maia could not decipher. Mortification continued to filter through his haze of anger and illness as Cala guided him to a chair. He realized that he was shivering violently. Was it colder than usual in the Alcethmeret? Maia was almost always cold, but he did not often shiver to this extent.

Cala called in Beshelar, who somehow found a pageboy to send for Kiru. Some seconds or hours later, Maia could not tell, Beshelar returned with Csevet on his heels. Beshelar was saying, “We are certain your reasoning is imperative, but now is not the time to call upon his Serenity.”

Csevet said, “We know that it is selfish, but we have no information of great importance to share. We could not sleep and wished to ensure that he is well. To hear you send for Kiru prior to the time for the nohecharei to switch did not alleviate our worry.”

“Improper,” Beshelar grumbled.

“We know,” Csevet said quietly, then met eyes with Maia and Cala in turn and abruptly stopped walking, as though he had not previously noticed he was within the emperor’s bedchamber. “What’s toward?”

“We have a fever,” Maia said, as though that explained with no need for question why his eyes still leaked tears. A beat of silence passed. “At times we wonder why we our reign is thus plagued with misfortunes. We are kidnapped, Osmerrem Danivaran passes, we are nearly assassinated. We cannot have friends.”

Cala seemed to shrink into his blue robes. Abruptly and painfully, Maia found his temper fade to guilt. What right had he to resent Cala for saying they could not be friends? He recalled the day, not long after he assumed his reign, that Cala told him that silence made grief harder. Maia had rebuked him, said that  _ speaking helps not. _

Had not Cala been reaching out to Maia? Had not Maia been the first to disengage himself from a possible friendship? His guilt grew stronger yet.

“‘Tis my fault,” said Maia.

“Most certainly not!” erupted Beshelar. “The House Tethimada—“

Maia interrupted. “I do not speak of the assassination attempt.”

A sense of understanding passed over the room. Beshelar fell silent.

“Perhaps I am unable to sufficiently receive acts of compassion. Perhaps I always will be. I cannot even handle receiving birthday gifts.”

“Serenity,” said Csevet, with a ghost of a smile, “In fairness, there were a great many gifts.”

Maia made no attempt to suppress the rough laugh that bubbled out from his chest. He sank back into his chair and rubbed the rough cloth of the arm with his fingers. “I was eight years of age the last time someone—”  _ Gave me a gift. _

_ Loved me. _

He exhaled more harshly than he had intended.

Suddenly, Cala was speaking, more fervently than Maia had ever heard him before. “Serenity, I apologize for correcting you, but,”—he switched to the plural here, not formal—“have we not already established that you can, in fact, have friends? And that we are your friends? And that we…” Cala stumbled over his words, and his face grew red. “That we hold each other in affection? I cannot… cannot return the Empress Chenelo to you, but know that were it possible, I would go to the ends of the world to do so. And, er, to prevent all the hardships you faced at the hand of your cousin.” Cala’s gaze dipped toward Maia’s arm, and Maia involuntarily moved his hand to smooth his sleeve over his scars.

“We all would do so, I think,” Beshelar said, stuttering over the informal first.

Maia ducked his head and looked at his lap. “This is not helping me to stop crying,” he said with a wet but genuine laugh.

In that moment, Kiru entered, somehow simultaneously rushed and properly composed.

“Serenity,” she said, and bowed. “Will you allow us to tend to you?”

“Please,” said Maia. Keeping his eyes open suddenly became a task he was nearly too exhausted to accomplish, and he allowed Kiru to examine him without protest. 

“This seems only to be a cold.” It required a great effort of Maia to realize that Kiru was speaking again. “We can assist in treating the fever, but above all we prescribe rest, Serenity.”

Rest. Sleep. Yes, Maia thought, he could certainly do with sleep at this moment. 

He remembered not how he moved from the armchair to his bed, only that he was now laying upon the large bed that had appeared so threatening when he first became emperor. Kiru pressed a hand to Maia’s forehead and murmured some string of words that he could not understand. 

He grew impossibly more fatigued, but when Kiru moved as though to leave him, Maia sat up and grabbed onto the sleeve of her robe with urgency. “Wait, please, have you a cantrip to prevent the nightmares that plague me so?”

A choking noise came from elsewhere in the room, and in his daze Maia could not comprehend why this was so. He found Csevet looking away and concealing his face with one hand. 

“Are you well, Csevet?” Maia asked.

Csevet visibly swallowed and assembled something resembling a smile upon his face. “We are well, Serenity. Thank you. We only hope you are able to sleep peacefully tonight.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Kiru gently pushed on his shoulder, and Maia relaxed back onto the bed, not fighting her touch. “We will see what we are able to do for you, Serenity. Now, as Mer Aisava says, sleep peacefully.”

Maia dreamed of his mother and of Cstheio Caireizhasan.

  
  
  
  


“Mer Aisava.”

Csevet turned to see Kiru hurrying after him as he left the Alcethmeret.

“Kiru Athmaza.” He waited politely until she was at his side before continuing to walk. 

“Mer Aisava,” she said again, “what you said to his Serenity was untrue, was it not?”

He stumbled and took a moment to regain his previous pace of walking. “We beg your pardon?”

Kiru’s ears turned pink. “We mean to say that you do not, in fact, seem well as of late.” 

This did not ease Csevet’s confusion, and he struggled to voice this. “We do not… how do you mean?”

“You seem overtired. We thought perhaps you have not been sleeping well either.”

Csevet could not find a better way to phrase his feelings before he said with a rather exasperated sigh, “Is it  _ that  _ obvious?” He nearly bit his tongue. 

Kiru laughed at this, and Csevet supposed be was glad to bring her some form of amusement. “No need to worry, Mer Aisava. You might call it a cleric’s intuition.”

A smile overcame Csevet. “We thank you for your concern, cleric, but respectfully, we doubt there is anything to be done to help us. We are tired, yes, but that accompanies this line of work.” He paused, then added, “You would understand this, we think. And we do not wake with any memory of unpleasant dreams, though it is not impossible that we have had them.”

They had ceased walking. “Even so, please tell us if there is aught we can do to assist you.”

“The same to you, Kiru Athmaza.” He paused to smile again. “We think we will rest well tonight.”


End file.
